


as easily as breathing in

by visiblemarket



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Frottage, I hope, Kissing, M/M, PWP, Vagueness, clint thinks phil's in control and cool as a cucumber, handjobs, it's a real treat, much less his own emotions, phil is an awkward dork and in control of nothing, sex buddies ~becoming more~ maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2306555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Coulson's body relaxes, sprawling almost protectively over Clint's. "I feel like I owe you an apology, Barton," he says, professional as only Coulson can be while pining his subordinate bootycall to the ground.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Clint manages a steady inhale. "Nah. Good times."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	as easily as breathing in

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to get past some writer's block. This is what came out.

He wakes up to the gentle creak of a door opening and a sliver of fluorescent light cutting through the darkness of his room. He eases his eyes open: the silhouette is familiar and he relaxes, stifles a yawn. "Are we up, sir?"

Coulson hesitates. Clint can see his fingers twitch at his side before he sticks his hands in his pockets. Ah, so it's that kind of night. 

"Not quite, specialist," Coulson says, eventually, his voice soft. 

_Specialist, huh?_ Yeah, it's that kind of night. Clint opens his eyes all the way, catches the look on Coulson's face: exhausted, uneasy, and uncertain, three things Clint wouldn't have even guessed Coulson was capable of feeling, much less expressing, up until a few weeks ago. 

"Coulson," he says, and Coulson looks at him, eyes focusing where they'd seemed slightly dazed before. Clint smiles at him. "C'mere," he says, turning on his side, shifting over to the edge of his bunk and patting at the mattress.

Coulson hesitates; Coulson always hesitates, because he's ashamed of himself or because he wants Clint to be sure. But he always comes and Clint's always sure, and it's only a little annoying to have to go through the same dance each time.

"Shoes off," Clint says, and for some reason, that's what works: Coulson shuts the door behind him, toes off his shoes, and slips off his tie, then tucks it into his pocket. Clint raises the corner of the sheet in invitation, and watches Coulson’s silhouette drop the jacket on top of Clint's tiny, cluttered desk, then eases in beside him.

It's a tight fit and they have to be careful, but Clint forgets that a little because Coulson's warm and tense and smells like bad coffee, and Clint just wants to crawl all over him and calm him down. But he wants to fall off the bed less, so he stays still, inhales again, and reaches down, pressing his palm to the still-soft bulge between Coulson's legs. It always takes Coulson a little while, but Clint doesn't mind at all, loves teasing him, rubbing his hand against Coulson till his cock plumps against Clint's palm, till Clint can feel it leaking through his pants. 

Coulson seems to like it too (he keeps coming back for it, anyway), but today he says, "Wait," today he wraps his fingers around Clint's wrist. And Clint stops, of course, and looks up at him. There's not enough light to tell for sure, but Coulson looks nervous about something, about having stopped him, maybe, and so Clint smiles, because he's got no problem backing off and doesn't want Coulson thinking otherwise. 

Coulson's eyes soften, and he looks at Clint for a while, scanning his features more closely than Clint’s really comfortable with, obviously searching for something. Clint, who has no idea what it is, stays very still and keeps his fingers curled around the smooth, cool leather of Coulson's belt, takes in the scent and warmth that Coulson's radiating at him. 

It seems like forever but it's probably just a few seconds, and then Coulson's wrapping his hand around the back of Clint's neck and pulling him in for a soft, careful kiss.

And it's not the first time they've kissed or anything, but it's the first time Coulson's kissed him like this, apparently just for the sake of kissing him, not desperate and gasping and in the midst of coming all over Clint's hand, so it's a little weird, but Clint goes with it, angles his body till they're pressed tight, chest to chest and hip to hip. 

He opens his mouth and Coulson's tongue eases its way in, lazy and teasing and tempting Clint to swallow around it, which he does. Coulson strokes at the nape of Clint's neck in response, and there's no reason for that to be a turn on, no reason at all, but Clint feels his breath catch, feels the blood rushing to his dick. He slides his hand up Coulson's back and hitches his leg over Coulson's waist, dragging himself closer. Coulson tenses for a second, obviously surprised, and then rolls onto his back, taking Clint with him.

For one perfect, glorious, breathless moment he's on top of Coulson, straddling his hips, feeling Coulson's cock straining against his own, through the double barrier of his suit pants and Clint's boxers.

He shifts his hips experimentally and its a fucking stupid move and a testament to how much Coulson screws him up, because they're at the very edge of a very narrow bed at the moment. Or, they _were_ at the edge of a very narrow bed, because Clint's knee slips off the mattress and then they _are_ tumbling off it in a tangle of limbs and sheets and surprised curses.

And Clint knows how to fall, generally speaking, but not exactly in this context. He lands on his back on the cold floor, which knocks the wind right out of him. He barely manages a gasp as Coulson collapses on top of him, struggling against gravity and the sheets he's tangled in as he tries to right himself again.

Clint can't move, and he's actually not even sure if he should: he can barely breathe, he's got about half of the sheet under him, and his legs are intertwined with Coulson's. Staying still, at this point, seems like a much better idea. 

"Barton?" Coulson says, stroking his palms over Clint's face. "Clint? Are you—"

He manages a shallow, wheezing, sound that vaguely indicates that he's alive.

Coulson's body relaxes, sprawling almost protectively over Clint's. "I feel like I owe you an apology, Barton," he says, professional as only Coulson can be while pining his subordinate bootycall to the ground.

Clint manages a steady inhale. "Nah. Good times."

Coulson laughs, and it vibrates through every inch of Clint's aching body. "Hold still," he says, and sits up, just enough to reach the nightstand they were very luck to not have hit on the way down. "Eyes shut," and Clint obeys without thinking about it. He hears the click of the lamp on the night table, and winces as the light seeps through his eyelids. He makes another valiant attempt at sucking in enough air to keep him from passing out. It's a little better, and he opens his eyes slowly.

Coulson's kneeling, with one knee between Clint's thighs and the other outside them, and he looks almost endearingly wrecked: his cheeks are flushed, his hair's a mess, the first couple of buttons of his shirt are undone, and his lips are red and swollen. Clint wants nothing, not even air, as much as he wants to be kissing him again. 

"Well," Coulson says, quirking his lips into a slight smirk, though Clint can tell from the slight brightening of the flush in his cheeks that's he's embarrassed as hell. "That was graceful."

Clint laughs; it hurts his chest a little, but he's had a lot worst, and he hoists himself up till he's braced against the night table they'd been phenomenally lucky not to have it on the way down. "Not our best work," he agrees, still a little wheezy, and Coulson, who's still kneeling carefully over Clint's knee, smiles and ducks his head. "Hey," Clint says, softly, without even knowing what else he's going to say.

Coulson glances up and Clint acts without thinking, which is not as common an occurrence as some people (Coulson included) probably think it is: he reaches out, tucks his fingers under Coulson's chin, and leans into a kiss. 

Coulson doesn't even seem surprised at it, just opens his mouth and lets Clint in, presses his hands against Clint's chest, turning his head for a different angle. Clint wraps an arm around the back of his neck and Coulson slides his hands down and around Clint's waist. They kiss like that for a while, up against the nightstand, but it's awkward and he slides, till his back's against the floor and Coulson's leaning over him. 

Clint's hard again, rubbing up against Coulson's thigh, and Coulson's letting him, staying very still as he kisses Clint's mouth and cradles Clint's face in his hands. Clint reaches out, slides his hand between Coulson's legs; Coulson's hips jerk and his erection swells against Clint's palm. Clint grins, and Coulson lets out a harsh, panted breath against his lips before he brings their mouths together again.

"Wait, I want—" Clint mumbles, in between kisses. "On your back, okay?" and Coulson goes with it, makes no sensible suggestions about getting back on the bed. Clint doesn't question it, just straddles Coulson's waist and grinds his ass against Coulson's quickly hardening cock, braces himself on Coulson's shoulders.

Coulson's hands slip under his shirt, rough palms stroking carefully along Clint's ribs, and all Clint can think is _hell yeah_ , letting go of Coulson's shoulders for just as long as it takes to peel the shirt off and over his head. He doesn't even consider the fact that they've never gotten this far, never gone beyond the quick and dirty hand jobs in the dark. Coulson brushes his palms across Clint's chest, rubs his thumbs against Clint's nipples. Clint arches his back, throwing his head back as Coulson grabs his waist and thrusts up against him, precise but not at all gentle.

He goes for Coulson's dick immediately after, unzipping pants and pushing down underwear and he'd been vaguely aware, before, at just how big and thick Coulson's cock was, but it's another thing entirely to a actually see it, with all the lights on.

He may actually zone out a little, starring at it even as he works his fist over the the shaft. 

Clint looks up: Coulson's giving him a slightly smug kind of smile. "Are you done?"

"Not even close," Clint says, desperately wanting to suck him off but not sure if Coulson'd be willing to let him. He's painfully hard just thinking about it and Coulson seems to have noticed, has dropped one hand from Clint's waist to stroke at Clint's dick through his boxers. Clint thrusts into his grip and Coulson smiles, obviously pleased, before pushing down the last barrier of cloth between them, bringing their dicks together, and stroking.

The sensation hits Clint everywhere, from his cock to his thighs to his stomach and his chest, and he leans over, suddenly desperate to get kissed again.

Coulson obliges, opening his mouth and caressing nape of Clint's neck. Clint thrusts into Coulson's grip, chasing the amazing, drawn out strokes. He squirms and bucks and ruts against Coulson, desperate and panting and too distracted by feeling to even notice Coulson flipping them over till he's on his back again. 

He'd complain, but Coulson kisses him again, deep and sloppy, and presses him down against the floor with his body, with his elbows on Clint's shoulders. He kisses and strokes at Clint's face and hair, rubs his cock against Clint's with strong, steady thrusts of his hips. He's so warm and solid between Clint's thighs that Clint aches to wrap his legs around Coulson, to draw him closer, but the tangle of blankets are too tight and all he can do is meet his thrusts, till he feels himself, feels Coulson, feels them both start to leak against his stomach. He tears his mouth away from Coulson's, tucks his face against Coulson's neck.

"You should...fuck me...next time..." he pants, between desperate gasps of shared air, and groans as he feels Coulson tense, his hips stuttering, as he comes all over Clint's stomach and chest. 

Clint follows, quickly, head falling back against the floor, fingers digging into the broad, muscled, still-clothed planes of Coulson's back. 

They stay like that for much longer than they should, given that they're on Clint's floor and he's got to admit, it may have been a while since it’s been clean. Coulson, who's started dropping soft, gentle kisses along the column of Clint's throat, doesn't seem to care. Clint runs his fingers through Coulson's short, silky hair, and decides he's not going to care till Coulson does.

He almost considers letting himself drift off like that, with Coulson nuzzling against him and keeping him warm; he's drowsy and more comfortable than he has any right to be, given that all he's got between him and the floor is a crumpled bed sheet. He's maybe a little over sensitized by the continued contact, but not enough to push Coulson away, not enough to do anything but shiver when Coulson's soft cock brushes against his own. Coulson stills when it happens, though, pulls back just enough to be able to look Clint in the eye. 

Clint really wishes he hadn't; Coulson's giving him this sweet, concerned look and Clint can't even imagine the look he's returning it with. For one thing, he can't stop himself from smiling, and for another, he feels like his heart's about to burst in his chest. 

"Okay?" he says, and Clint sighs, because he's not, and he can't lie, not right now, not to him. He shuts his eyes.

"Tired."

Coulson goes still for a moment; even his breathing seems to quiet. Clint aches to open his eyes and look at him again, to say something stupid and pointless, but he doesn't. He feels Coulson sit up, slipping out of the tangled mess that is Clint's bedsheet. "You're right," he says, quietly. Clint flickers his eyes open; Coulson's not looking at him. He's tucking himself back in and zipping up his pants, reaching for the bed, using the frame to pull himself up. He settles on the edge of the mattress and offers Clint a hand up. "We should get some sleep." 

Clint takes his hand, though he doesn't really need the help, and swings himself back onto the bed, right next to Coulson. Coulson keeps his hand in Clint's, gives it a quick squeeze, before leaning in to press a quick goodbye kiss to Clint's forehead, and gets up. 

He bends over to pick up the discarded sheets and the shirt Clint had been wearing, plops the sheets down on the bed next to Clint and hands him the shirt. 

It's starting to get cold, without the constant body heat Coulson'd been putting off, so Clint slips it on. He squints at Coulson, who's bustling around the room with his usual post-game efficiency, though he is, for some reason, removing clothing where usually he'd be drawing it back on: unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, stepping out of his pants, folding everything up and dropping it down on top of his long-forgotten jacket. Clint doesn't know what to say, but manages, for once, to keep his mouth shut and avoids saying the wrong thing out of panic.

Coulson comes back to him, wearing nothing but those plain white briefs that drive Clint crazy: he'd always assumed it was because he never got a good, clear look at them, but apparently he was wrong, because Clint can see pretty much all of them right now and Coulson still looks hot as hell. 

He's got that great, broad chest that Clint just wants to press his face against, the strong, solid thighs that Clint's always tempted to run his hands up at the worst possible times: harried lunches in the mess hall, long drives in rental cars, just about any briefing where they end up sitting next to each other. His hands twitch at his side and Clint realizes that he looks nervous again, though Clint can't imagine why. He's close enough that it doesn't matter, close enough that Clint's brain kind of short circuits and he finds himself grabbing Coulson's waist and dragging him closer, pressing his forehead against Coulson's stomach and inhaling so deep into his bruised lungs that they twinge a little. But it's worth it: Coulson smells like himself, like that wonderful, clean scent he always has, but also like sweat and sex and Clint, and _that's_ strangely intoxicating, smelling himself on another person. Clint has no complaints. Plus, Coulson's started stroking his hair again, caressing the nape of his neck. 

“Sorry,” Clint says, for some reason, and feels Coulson take a breath.

“Don’t be,” he says. “Good times, right?”

Clint forces a laugh. “Yeah. Good times.”

Coulson’s fingers still, just for a second, and then resume. "Lie down," he says, and Clint does; Clint would do anything for him, right now, while he's wrapped up in his post-sex haze, or ever, really, if he thinks about it. 

Clint doesn't like to think about it. 

So he doesn't, he just lies down and rolls over. His back is to Coulson, because either Coulson's staying out of pity and guilt, which is depressing as hell, or he's staying because he feels at least some of what Clint feels, which is terrifying beyond all reason, and not something Clint's ready to deal with at half past three in the morning. Either way he can't see Coulson's face right now, or he’ll be able to figure out which one it is.

The bed shifts; Coulson climbs in behind him, pulls the sheets up over them both, and nuzzles at the nape of Clint's neck with his nose. He lets out what sounds like a very satisfied sigh that brushes against Clint's skin like a warm summer breeze. 

"Hey," he says, voice a little too calm to be natural; it sounds almost like a question but Clint’s not sure how to answer it.

"Hey," Clint manages. "I—" he cuts himself off, glances down at Coulson's hand as it's pressed softly against his chest.

"Do you want to get dinner?"

Clint relaxes. "What? Right now?" He's not saying no, but jeez, Coulson, really? There's not going to be anything in the mess hall but stale pastries and shitty coffee at this hour, plus they really are going to need at least some sleep tonight.

"No, not—I mean, if you want, but what I—sometime. Some other time. Before midnight, sometime."

It seems an arbitrary distinction to make; Clint gets the feeling Coulson's trying to say something, trying to _ask_ something, that Clint's not 100% getting. "Sure?" he ventures, because dinner, at least, he can do. Coulson presses a kiss to the back of his neck, letting it linger and sending happy shivers through every inch of Clint's body. That seems to mean something, too, but Clint's too tired and maybe a little too scared to ask.

"Okay," is all he says, though, before reaching back to turn off the light. And then, seemingly as an afterthought: "Good night, Clint."

 

 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> The original title for this was "Mouth to Mouth", which I still like, but didn't seem to fit where the fic actually went sooo. On to my next naming convention, scouring poetry! It's from [Margaret Atwood's _Variations on the Word “Sleep”_](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/97510401251/i-would-like-to-watch-you-sleeping-which-may), which is too lovely and full of beautiful imagery to really merit being used to name my porn, but here we are.
> 
> _I would like to follow  
>  you up the long stairway  
> again & become  
> the boat that would row you back  
> carefully, a flame  
> in two cupped hands  
> to where your body lies  
> beside me, and you enter  
> it as easily as breathing in_


End file.
